Mad Tea Party
by daifuku
Summary: A different, slightly morbid take on the Hatter and the Doormouse. Oneshot, AU...written by me and my good friend swordsrock.


"Move down, move down, fresh plate, fresh plate!" The man wearing a large, floppy hat and a dazed, manic smile sprang up so quickly from his chair that he knocked it over. He took no notice as he shooed an imaginary party-fellow out of the seat to the right of him and sat down, happily sloshing lukewarm tea from the teapot into the dirty cup.

"Must have some cream, mustn't we, yes," he said, giving the impression of mumbling even when he spoke quite clearly. "Oh, look, there's blood in the cream, how vexing." He forgot in the next instant, pouring the pinkish cream into his cup and stirring animatedly. He was the Mad Hatter—with capital letters, thankkyouverymuchwouldyoulikesugarwiththat?—what did he care about blood in the cream? It was still perfectly good cream… Just a bit red.

"And real finger sandwiches, too, how delightful." It wasn't clear if he was speaking to himself, to the other revelers at the party (who were all of...one mouse) or simply to the voices in his head. Perhaps all three, perhaps none. It was hard to tell and largely irrelevant, anyway. He was the Mad Hatter—sugar? again? or would you rather honey?—and rules didn't apply to him. Not at his very own tea party that had started before time immemorial and would continue long past it began.

The Doormouse had long stopped being bothered by the Hatter's antics. Sitting in a saucer, it merely watched, nibbling on a particularly hard piece of white—something in the bread. The Hatter was rarely ever dangerous during tea, and on the occasion that things did get out of hand, well…the Doormouse would merely creep into the teakettle until the only remnants of the chaos were bits of blood in the cream.

This particular occasion—occasion, not party; there had only ever been just the one tea party, for as long as it could tell—didn't seem to be an occasion for one of the Hatter's madder outbursts. The Doormouse saw no particular harm in drinking tea that day, and saw no particular risk in growing out of the protective shell of its usual teapot.

"Pass the sugar, Hatter dear…" said the Doormouse. Slipping lightly from the table she—for this time it had chosen to be she—fell into a seat recently vacated by one of the Hatter's "guests" in the commotion.

"Sugar, sugar" he sing-songed, picking up various jars and jugs and tossing them carelessly and over-excitedly to the Mouse. "People always wanting sugar and never wanting cream. Why's that, then, is it because the cream is pink? But don't they know that pink is a good color? Red and white it is, cream and blood, and they're both so lovely…"

"Sugar, then cream, Hatter dear," the Mouse chirped, juggling one jar, then another before settling them on the table in a wavering tower. She took one, then spooned two spoonfuls into her cup before replacing it on the top of the jar-tower.

"But you put the cream and then the sugar, it's the only way," he yelled, like a petulant three-year-old. But he obligingly, even decorously, handed the cream over to the mouse with a very grave air. "Here's your cream, my good lady, and may you choke on it since you have not the sense to put it in before your sugar."

"Of course, of course, Hatter dear," she crooned, pouring some pink-ish cream into her cup and stirring. The Doormouse knew better than to argue with the Hatter. She took a long, almost dainty sip, watching her party companion over the brim of the cup.

He pouted, then took a finger sandwich—with actually actual fingers—and nibbled on it pensively, looking world-weary and, to those who didn't know him, almost sane. "You can't find a decent finger sandwich anywhere nowadays," he said morosely to the teapot. "No one makes them with actual real fingers anymore. It's tragic. Don't they understand the need a real tea party has for real finger sandwiches?"

"No one but you, Hatter dear," agreed the Mouse, though fairly sure the bit of conversation wasn't directed towards her. Twitching her nose, she almost smiled—the Hatter's parties had their…quirks: little oddities that set them apart from most sane tea parties. The largest and most important one, of course, was the Hatter himself.

He brooded on this for a moment. "It's not fair." He said it as if the proclamation would change anything, as if just because he noticed it, the world would adapt to suit him. For the most part, he was right—Wonderland was exceedingly sympathetic to the plights, real and imagined, of its inhabitants, but, since there was no real want behind his implied wish, nothing happened. He sighed explosively and drained his cup of bloody tea in one long gulp, forgetting about his impotent anger and dissatisfaction.

"No, no it never is," she sighed, watching him through half-closed eyes and twirling a cookie between her fingers.

The Hatter blinked, as if coming out of a trance. In a calm, rational tone, he inquired civilly, "And how are you, my good lady? Does the day find you well? Are you enjoying yourself at my little fête? Is the sun shining too brightly, shall I call up the clouds? Or are the clouds too plentiful and shall I invoke the wind to blow them away?"

The cookie, which had begun its ascent towards her mouth, paused and hovered between her fingers. She turned, staring at the Hatter in wonder.

"The day finds me…very well, Hatter dear," she replied, almost cautiously. How long would it last, she wondered idly. "And you? I see you are…" she paused, not quite able to find the right word.

"Alive?" he suggested. "Vivacious? Positively full of vigor? Bursting at the seams with irrepressible vitality?"

The Doormouse smiled, in awe, in relief, in something else, maybe, but she was far too preoccupied to think of what that might be.

"I…all of the above, Hatter dear."

"I'm always all of the above," he conceded with vain modesty, preening. "I'm simply too much for my own good. And for everyone else's," he added with a blandness that said very clearly that he wasn't considering the fingers in the finger sandwiches or the blood in the cream.

"We're all…quite used to it, Hatter de—" she stopped herself and frowned, twitching her nose in mild thought. "Hatter. Hatter." She said. She'd grown so used to the crooning, comforting suffix. It was so odd when it wasn't necessary.

"I'm sure you are," the Hatter assured her, fingering the brim of his over-large hat. "After all, you're always here for tea! Because it's always teatime and always a party and everyone's invited." He paused. "But no one ever comes," he added sadly, trying to take a sip of tea and looking puzzled to find that there was none there.

"Not _no_ one…" she murmured. "Would you like guests?" Real guests? she added to herself. It was almost heartbreaking, really, to see him so discouraged, even though she knew it meant he was really truly himself.

"No," he declared suddenly, getting up again with the beginnings of his trademark crazy smile. "Move along, move along, down one, down one, fresh cup! I like my tea parties as they are, thankyouverymuch." He gestured sweepingly and knocked off a cup and saucer, which broke on the ground. He didn't notice.

The Doormouse watched him bustle about with something that may have been sadness. Raising the cookie to her lips, she let out a ghost of a sigh and took a bite.

"Of course, of course, Hatter dear," murmured the Mouse, slipping into the confines of the teapot.

The Hatter looked around with something like mild confusion, as if looking for something that he thought should be there but wasn't, then was distracted by all his guests. He smiled widely, contented with the world, and poured himself some tea.

"Always teatime, always a party," he hummed to himself. "And absolutely everyone is invited."


End file.
